a place you miss
by athena3062
Summary: Emma doesn't miss places (won't let herself get attached) because the threads are too fragile, temporary and easily broken. But after she's run through town in pursuit of the author, she finds herself drawn to the Jolly Roger. /set immediately post 4x16, no spoilers for later episodes


After she's run through town, chasing the elusive author (his expression still twists her stomach because there's something she's missing but she's tired, exhausted down to her bones), Emma turns towards the docks. Today has swelled into something grotesque and she wants to be alone. She climbs aboard his ship before she can stop herself.

The narrow cabin below deck is the same as she remembers from the passage to Neverland, moonlight drifting through the grate and the smell of salt permeating the air. She closes the door, shucks off her coat and sweater and tossing them on the narrow bench.

Her hair goes into a messy knot at the base of her neck, removing distraction, before she hoists herself onto the bench. It's the same as she remembered, still a perfect height for her to do pull-ups.

Emma wraps her fingers around the metal bar and tries to push away everything that weighs heavy on her chest. Her breathing, harsh exhales and controlled inhales, fill the cabin. She pulls herself up eight times before she falls into a rhythm, muscles flexing and contracting; she pauses at twenty for a brief reprieve.

He finds her after she's stopped counting, the back of her shirt dark with sweat. She hears the door open and can't ignore the tread of his feet over the wooden planks. She isn't surprised that he found her, not that she was waiting for him, but warmth coils behind her ribs.

"How did you find me?" Her muscles burn from exertion, and she lowers herself down until her feet touch the bench. She eases her fingers off the bar, spreading her hands wide.

"Tracking spell."

"Liar," she replies with no venom, turning towards the door.

Killian steps further into the cabin and she notices the lantern looped through his hook. He swings the handle over a peg, casting rays of light over the floor. She hadn't noticed the dark, not with her face so close to the window, preoccupied with too many thoughts.

She jumps down, landing easily onto the deck. Sweat drips from her hairline to her collar and Emma grimaces. A shower would be nice. She doesn't hesitate, yanking the thin shirt over her head (she's done this a hundred times but never like this, not with him steps away and candlelight casting ruddy patterns over their bodies).

The air is cold against her bare torso. Her hands shake - curled too long around the bar - and she reaches for her top to hide the trembling. She slips the sweater over her head, catching his attention with a half-smile that doesn't meet her eyes.

She could cross the cabin until his back touched the wall, rolling onto her toes so they're eye to eye, using the rocking waves as a poor excuse to drape herself in his arms. It would be easy to curl her hand around his wrist, her thumb curved against his hook, and pull them towards his quarters.

Instead her right hand moves through the air, sending small orange lights towards the dark candle wicks and brightening the room. His expression reminds her of Henry when she conjured the counterfeit page, but Killian's more impressed than surprised. She isn't used to someone smiling indulgently when she displays a new feat, nor is she used to displaying her magic so casually.

Exhaustion falls over her like a cloak and Emma sits down on the wooden bench. Releasing the author was like jumping off a cliff, an impulsive decision made before she could weigh the consequences. Because she used to trust her instincts, to assess a situation quickly and find the nearest escape hatch as she dashed into the fray. She used to follow her gut, sorting out the details as she went deeper, but that was before…before Henry came to Boston, before the (first) Curse, before when she thought magic wasn't real and didn't believe.

Killian reaches into his coat, offers her the flask. She accepts (even though it's predictable, it's a welcome distraction), yanking out the cork and tipping the bottle against her lips. She hasn't eaten since breakfast and warmth quickly follows the rum.

She closes her left hand around the cork, feeling moisture coat her palm. He's standing in the middle of the floor and hasn't said a word.

Old habits beckon from the shadows. It would be easy to pick a fight. Easier still to run, sail onto the open ocean or point the Bug West. But she can't do that to Henry, or him, not even to her parents (despite her anger).

"Sit," she urges sharply.

He raises an eyebrow, ready to challenge, but something in her expression (she must look a fright, cheeks flushed and eyes red) causes him settle beside her without argument.

"Here." She tilts the flask in his direction, a feeble peace offering, but he accepts. His thumb lingers longer than necessary against her knuckles. She may have swung a punch at the mast before climbing below (a spectacularly bad idea considering how little time she's spent in front of a punching bag in the last three years).

She shifts closer, knees brushing, her calf against his shin, one foot between his boots. Maybe she's being childish, but she expected more from Snow, better from David. She wants to lay the words out on the ground between them and sort through the jagged pieces.

He passes her the flask and she takes a shallow sip, enough to coat her dry throat and blot the rough edges.

"I released the author." Her admission lands heavily in the silence but Killian only nods.

"I know. Henry told me."

Questions bubble to her lips (how did Henry know? was he okay? where was he?) but Killian is already filling in the details.

Emma tries to focus on his words but only catches pieces: Henry's safe, all appears quiet for the moment.

Explanation finished, Killian offers the flask but she shakes her head. He tucks the bottle inside his coat (the same one he draped over her shoulders after their date that smelled like new leather and coffee). She wants to bury her face in the collar.

Emma twines her fingers through his, palm to palm, his rings cool against her raw skin. Killian was right about the darkness. And she doesn't know whether she's right or wrong; not now with too many pieces scattered on both sides of the dividing line.

The ship shifts in the water, wood creaking and settling. Her eyes are gritty and her left hip, aggravated from sprinting in the wrong shoes, twinges when she shifts her weight.

He breaks the silence with a question she wasn't expecting (especially not today of all days): "what were the Swans like?"

It freezes her, paralyzing motion and thought and speech. She doesn't want to lie, not now in this fragile moment, but the truth seems impossible.

"I don't remember."

It's a partial lie. She remembers bits: a soft orange rabbit she used to sleep with every night, a plate decorated with a purple pony. She wonders what they did what those things. If they discarded pieces of a past that didn't fit into their future, replacing almost with forever?

She knows their names, has turned the syllables over and over until they lost meaning, but doesn't remember what she called them. She doesn't remember feeling safe, caught in a web of love and trust, knowing that she would be looked after and fed and happy. But she must have been, at least for a while. She remembers the day they left, how their white car looked against the pile of dirty snow along the curb, but she doesn't remember if they said goodbye.

The memory of being a lost girl burns like a brand against her skin. She's grown accustomed to expecting the worst, waiting for when (not if, never if) the bottom would fall out, but she's forgotten how much it hurts to talk about them. It's easier for her to explain her childhood in a series of straight-forward facts with a few (harmless) lies, but he's different.

"I didn't have a last name," she tells Killian, and it shouldn't hurt to say aloud but it does. She nearly chokes on the words, struggles to keep her voice from cracking. "So my caseworker kept Swan."

He swears under his breath, one arm going around her shoulders, hands still joined. She wraps her free hand around his forearm and leans against his shoulder, hiding her face.

"I never got around to changing it," she confesses.

"It's yours now," he replies.

Emma tightens her grip on his hand, a quick squeeze instead of saying 'thank you' because she doesn't trust herself to not cry. Maybe it's the rum, or the truth dissipating into the salty air, or the comforting warmth of his body against hers, but she feels a fraction lighter.

Emma inhales deeply; she's missed the Jolly Roger. It's been so long since she let herself miss anything, too used to pushing aside those feelings, that the sudden realization takes her by surprise.

A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, laughter bubbling suddenly, because she missed this ship. She missed the familiar cut of the sails against the gray sky, the memories this tiny room held (when an unsentimental captain gave her a sword and she drank to remember a man she'd never really forgotten), the absurd tingling in her palms every time she stepped aboard. She missed it.

"Emma?" He shifts slightly, concerned eyes hovering in front of her face.

"I'm alright," she assures him with a smile. She's more than alright; she's found a place to miss.


End file.
